


Waiting for You to Come Through

by Pants (Smarty_Pants)



Series: Trapped in a Romcom [2]
Category: Bridget Jones’s Diary, Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Bad Puns, Blue Food, Bridget Jones's Diary References, Coming Out, Fist Fights, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Trapped in a romcom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-29 10:23:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20962304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smarty_Pants/pseuds/Pants
Summary: Patrick, who very much likes David just as he is...or the next romcom mashup you didn't know you needed





	Waiting for You to Come Through

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies this time go to Helen Fielding. Always my undying love for Daniel Levy.
> 
> Thanks to the folks at the Rosebudd who heard me crash the late-night party sometimes and whine about writing, as well as other friends who also heard me whine about writing and were gently encouraging, especially Distractivate. Lots of love to the readers of Schitt's Creek fics. Oh and #s6.

David Rose is folding in the cheese.

To be clear, he is currently folding in four different cheeses—extra sharp white cheddar, Havarti, Gruyère, and gorgonzola—into an ‘easy four-cheese fondue’ that right now looks not so much like _an elegant! delicious! _and_ simple!_ appetizer as it does a congealed gloppy mess.

David purchased the cheddar and Havarti from a local farmers’ market this afternoon, imagining himself pulling together the first course in this gorgeous multi-course dinner party. The cheese was adorably packaged in stacks of six square cuts tied with handmade blue twine. David is and always has been a sucker for presentation and so—_okay, yes_—he paid twice as much as he might have at the grocery store just to acquire the lovely cheese stacks. But aesthetically the whole thing was really working for him. The exact shade of blue twine even reminded him a bit of someone that . . . _no, David wasn’t going there._

Back to cooking, his latest area of clearly undiscovered genius. He could already see his guests being wowed by this new identity and his—until now—hidden expertise. David Rose, the unexpectedly amazing chef. Who knew?

Buzz. David ignores whatever that is. Buzz. _Fuck off_, David mutters.

David moves away from the melty-cheesy-now-bubbly situation happening on the stove to start preparing the main course for the evening. He’d purchased the most beautiful yellowfin tuna steaks at the fishmonger which he planned to sear with soy and ginger and serve with an herb hollandaise. But—somehow _but wait, how?_—the bag with the fresh fish wrapped so pleasingly in brown paper is not on the counter, is not with the other shopping bags, is not to be found in the kitchen at all.

_Ohhh, seriously, fuck._

The buzzing continues as David presses the pads of his thumbs hard along the bridge of his nose and against his eyes. After a few moments of angst and spiraling, he peeks his head out of the kitchen just in time to see a figure coming in through his front door. “Gah,” he says, ineloquently.

It’s Patrick Brewer, holding a bottle of white wine. He’s dressed in a well-fitted blue sports jacket, white open collar shirt and dark jeans. David’s heart starts thrumming. He’s sure Patrick can hear it; the sound is so loud in his own head. For a long beat, neither of them says anything.

“The door was open,” remarks Patrick. He takes in David’s current appearance, rather surprised. David is almost always pulled together, with his dark patterned designer sweaters, jeans that leave little to the imagination, and every hair blown dried and styled into place. Not that he needs to make himself pretty for Patrick to appreciate him. Patrick thinks David is beautiful just as he is.

This David in front of him _is_ a bit of a mess though, half-dressed and frazzled. His untucked shirt trails below the hem of his fuzzy cardigan. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing the dark hairs on his forearms. Instead of his sexy ripped designer jeans, he looks to be wearing extra-long, baggy shorts with a drop crotch. And there is something else—_is that mashed potato_—in his hair?

“I came to congratulate the new face of the hottest art gallery in New York. . .” Patrick starts with the words he rehearsed on the way over. He pulls out a copy of _The New Yorker, _turned to the page where David’s picture is featured in front of his latest modern art installation. He trails off as he notices a table laid with fine china and candles.

“Oh,” Patrick breathes. “I see I’ve come at a bad time.” 

There is a pause as David stares at him, stares through him. Patrick Brewer is here, in his apartment. Today of all days. _What the holy hell. _Of course, he looks really good. Damn. He smells—ooh, is that vanilla and lemongrass? Why does he have to look and smell so good? David reminds himself that this man is not interested in him. No point in going down that road again. _Be cool, David, be cool._

“It’s my birthday, and I’ve left the fucking tuna on the fucking subway,” David blurts out.

_So, I guess we went with not cool, then?_

“I see,” Patrick says, his gaze landing so gently that David has to look away to keep from letting the tears flow.

After so many nights of wandering the city, wondering if he’d bump into this man, wanting so much to finally say the words that were left unsaid between them—today is the day Patrick shows up. Today is the day David finds him just _here_ in his apartment. This day that arguably should be one of his greatest professional triumphs—_not to mention_ _his fucking birthday_—and so, naturally, David is your basic hot mess, babbling about tuna.

But Patrick. This man is entirely unfazed. He shrugs off his jacket and starts rolling up his sleeves, with purpose. Taking charge.

David relaxes, slowly exhaling the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

***

In the kitchen, Patrick helps David sort out the wrecked meal. He stirs the cheese fondue, which has finally melted into a rich, creamy consistency, which seems good. But the color is leaving Patrick a little perplexed.

“How does it look?” David asks sheepishly.

Patrick’s strong male presence fills up his apartment’s tiny kitchen. Truth be told, David rarely cooks anything in here, barely uses it at all. But he feels comforted, cozy and domestic, with Patrick so close.

In an instant, his brain tortures him with a scene from an alternative life—one David never got to have—the two of them together making dinner. Patrick holding a wooden spoon to David’s lips, offering him some delicious sauce to taste. Patrick pulling him in for a hard kiss as he parts David’s legs and presses his cock against David’s groin. The two of them turning off the burners and abandoning dinner to tangle up into arms, legs, skin, tongues, wildly imprinting their bodies on each other in every way they can.

“Great. Well, it’s blue,” laughs Patrick.

“Blue?” David looks chagrined. His eyebrows shoot up a mile.

“But blue is good,” Patrick says gently. “If you ask me, there isn’t enough blue food. . .it’s actually my favorite color. . .”

“Oh, shit,” David exhales sharply, realizing what happened. “It must have been the string.”

“It’s string cheese?”

David shoots Patrick a sharp look and dips a fork into the fondue to try to pick out bits of the twine he can now see are floating in the melted cheese. There’s little he can do about the overall hue of the dish, however.

Patrick brings his hand to his mouth, hiding the smallest laugh. It still dances in his eyes as he looks fondly at David.

David surveys the entire mess in the kitchen and he’s suddenly hit with an even more terrible realization. “Oh God. They’ll be here soon. I’ve invited Stevie, Alexis, Ted for a fabulous gourmet birthday dinner that I’m making from scratch.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure they’re coming to see you, not. . .” Patrick glances at the recipe on David’s iPad. “Umm, meadow harvest parfaits . . . so this is _dessert_?” He sees David’s stricken look. “Hey, hey. Here, have a drink.”

Patrick finds two glasses, pours the wine, and touches glasses with David.

“Happy Birthday David,” he says softly. “And congratulations on the gallery’s success. I knew you could do it.”

“Thank you . . . and. . . thank you.”

David holds Patrick’s gaze for a beat, feeling his cheeks grow warm. He looks at his lips, wonders how it would feel to kiss him now. Could he get away with it, in the name of his birthday? Maybe he could try. . . _but Patrick doesn’t want that_, he reminds himself.

David can’t help remembering when he first came to New York and he and Patrick were spending time together. They were only friends, he definitely knew that was true—what else could they be? And yet it had really felt like something. Like they were on the edge of something different, something exciting, _something_ _more_.

Then, there was the day.

_The day Patrick said that he liked him very much. . . just as he was. _

No one had ever liked David—not very much and not just as he was. Not one person had ever not wanted him to be something different, had ever not gotten tired of his too-muchness.

_The day Patrick had kissed him._

David must have been remembering it wrong. Surely, he had kissed Patrick, had forced himself where he wasn’t desired. Patrick didn’t want that, he couldn’t have. Because of what happened next.

_The day Rachel showed up. Patrick’s gorgeous fiancée. _

So, of course he didn’t want David putting his sloppy mouth on him. David knew it had to be his misunderstanding. So he did the only thing he could: he ran away, he wouldn’t talk, he couldn't answer Patrick’s calls. And eventually Patrick had stopped calling.

As if feeling David’s thoughts growing darker, Patrick looks away, his eyes scanning the kitchen.

“Oh God, Patrick,” David sighs, deciding to fix his attention on a less painful disaster than his unrequited feelings for this man. “What are we going to do about this terrible dinner?”

Patrick, a bit more subdued than earlier, takes stock of the various unappetizing dishes. “Well, you have blue fondue to start. You have a murky vegetable pudding to end. And—it looks like some mashed potatoes still remain in the bowl.” He leans into David and picks a tiny bit of cold potato from his hair and as he does, his hand brushes David’s cheek lightly. Patrick jumps as if he touched a live wire.

_Of course_, thinks David, he doesn’t even want to touch me. How could I have thought of kissing him?

Patrick seems to take a moment to collect himself—for whatever reason—and then he throws himself back into his very best romcom banter.

“And for the main course you have. . . misplaced tuna with greenish guck.”

“It’s a parsley-caper berry hollandaise actually,” sniffs David. He realizes that it’s a pretty useless point to make when he has no main course to serve it with, but it might be the one item that turned out the way it looked in the picture online.

“Do you have eggs?” he asks. “Back bacon?” David nods twice.

Patrick ties on an apron. “Right. Eggs Benedict it is then. With parsley-caper berry hollandaise.”

*******

David and Patrick are in the kitchen together, working in harmony. Patrick is browning slices of Canadian bacon in a pan, as David gently breaks eggs into a saucer. Patrick boils water and slips the eggs in one by one to poach. He tenderly turns them with a slotted spoon and David puts the English muffins in the toaster. It’s all very, very domestic.

“You wouldn’t, by any chance, have any warmed pie for dessert instead, would you?” asks Patrick, with a sneaky glint in his eye. David looks puzzled. “With ice cream on the side? Or whipped cream . . . but only if it’s real. If not, then nothing. Except the pie. But then not heated.”

David rewards Patrick with his twisted half-grin, his eyes flashing back at him. Patrick lets out another small laugh, feeling loosened up by several glasses of wine now.

The moment is sweet but this particular joke almost seems like a reference to an entirely different version of themselves—like it’s from a whole different movie—or at least another chapter in the book on tape of David’s life.

Somehow though Patrick cracking the strange joke eases the tension more than anything else has yet in this messy night. The two of them smile, knowingly, familiar in each other’s presence. The doorbell rings, interrupting what was just happening in the kitchen.

Suddenly there is a joyful threesome at the door with gifts, shouting “Happy Birthday” at David. When they see Patrick, they are more than a little taken aback.

“Well, hello. Are you joining us?” asks Stevie suspiciously. She narrows her eyes. Patrick looks at David.

“Ahm, yes—of course,” David says. Patrick’s shoulders visibly relax and he busies himself with readying the dishes for presentation at the table.

In that moment, his best friend shoots David a look, mouthing “what’s going on?” and David returns with a shrug and an “I don’t know” look. Patrick sees the exchange out of the corner of his eye and suppresses a grin.

***

Stevie, Alexis, and Ted are seated around the table, with Patrick and David at each end. Everyone stares at the fondue, which is blue. They look over at David, who dares them to say a word.

Patrick dunks a crust of his bread into the cheesy glop. “Excellent,” he says chewing pointedly.

“Nom nom, David,” Alexis murmurs.

“Delicious,” Stevie proclaims archly.

“What a treat this is, big guy!” says Ted. “I’ve always wanted to check out _Blue Man Goop._”

The three of them also watch Patrick very carefully.

“So-o-o, Paaa-tr-ick,” Stevie begins, enunciating every consonant of his name, her tongue like a knife. “Since you are here. With us. Now. After almost a year. Can we revisit—again—why your fiancée left you? And maybe just why it was that no one knew you had a fiancée in the first place?” Their heads collectively swivel towards Patrick to see just how sensitively he reacts to this question.

Stevie knows that Rachel is a sore spot for both David and Patrick, but she is also fiercely protective of David so she is more than willing to challenge Patrick to see his response. She was the one, after all, who had to watch over David the past year when he would periodically spiral over that goddamn guy in the goddamn blue button-up shirt.

Patrick pauses and looks deeply at David, finally having the opening to say what he has needed to say, what he has meant to say—to clear up this miscommunication once and for all—although he’d really have preferred to do this part without an audience.

“Well, that’s pretty simple, Stevie,” Patrick says, addressing her with a quick glance but then looking back at David.

“Rachel and I _had _broken up before umm . . . David and I became friends.” Patrick is struggling for the right words. “Which is something I never got a chance to explain to everyone at that barbecue when well, you know . . .everything happened.”

David is very intently stirring the fondue with a medium-sized ladle. Stevie had earlier been talking about a man she knew in her hometown who had reached his fingers into a pot of cheese fondue to pull something out. . . it was quite gross and no one had quite been following the story and anyway . . . this revelation from Patrick that they were in the middle of was _much more interesting._

“So, for the record . . . for everyone,” says Patrick with emphasis, to the whole David-Rose-protection-club gathered at the table. “We are absolutely not together, no. Because I don’t love her in that way but also because Rachel is straight. . . .and as it turns out, I am not. _NOT AT ALL_.”

David drops his spoon with a clatter to the floor, splattering blue cheese. He bends to pick it up, avoiding Patrick’s white hot gaze.

David’s mind starts racing. Patrick does not have a fiancée. OK. Patrick is not with Rachel. OK. Patrick is _not_ _straight_? OK. That was almost what he was starting to believe before Rachel showed up that day. He had almost believed it after their kiss. OK. Patrick had tried to explain something to him. But David was pretty sure he just wanted to let him down easy, so he’d refused to hear Patrick out until he finally stopped trying.

_What did this mean then?_ _What does this mean_ _now? _David’s brain begins to whirl.

“Okay, Patrick. _Not _straight then,” says Alexis, smiling, unable to help herself from asking: “And so. . . are you dating anyone at the moment?” David’s gaze immediately turns to drill a hole straight through her.

Alexis shrugs off her brother’s glare, just as she has done her whole life. She understands at some level that they were all supposed to be mad at Patrick ever since last year. But exactly what had happened with Rachel (who was _super_ _cute!_ and _nice!_) and that little blue button Patrick, who seemed to really like David in a way she’d never seen before—well, she isn’t really sure.

Ugh, David. She wants to say. This all feels very sketchy, like some romcommy-type problem that could be easily resolved if people would only say what they are really feeling. She’s never been the biggest fan of those movies; they were always more David’s thing anyway.

She sees her big brother standing there—supposedly her protector but whose tender heart has always needed the most protecting of all—as he tries to pretend Patrick hasn’t just cracked open a door to something he never thought he could be allowed to have.

And there is Sweet Patrick looking hard and hungry at David like he wants to start something, anything, _maybe everything _with him.

In that moment, Alexis smiles and thinks: Maybe. Maybe Patrick Brewer can truly make her brother happy.

“Come on—eat up!” David says, cutting off both her words and thoughts. “Two whole lovely courses to go!”

Unsure exactly what to do, he seems to have decided to ignore the life-altering information that was just revealed at the world’s most bizarre dinner party.

***

Forty-five minutes have passed with the five of them still sitting at the table awkwardly spooning out a very thick, very chewy meadow harvest parfait. . .of which honestly David isn’t even sure he could explain the specific ingredients that went into it. And he was the one who mixed it up just a few hours ago.

“_Harvest_? Well, I _heart_ _this_!” says Ted.

“It reminds me of something— tastes like. . . ” Alexis begins.

“Vegetable soup,” finishes Stevie. “But with the consistency of pudding!”

“Ooh. Well done, David!” Alexis coos.

“Four hours of careful cooking . . . and a feast of blue fondue, poached eggs and back bacon, and vegetable pudding. That’s worth drinking to,” Stevie laughs. They all raise their glasses.

“To David, who can’t cook, but who we love— just as he is . . .”

“To David,” they all repeat. “Just - as - he - is.”

He steals a glance over at Patrick who is still looking at him intently. David wishes he could make the rest of them disappear . . . and then maybe he’d be brave enough to wind his hand gently around the back of Patrick’s neck and sink his fingers into his hair. Just pull him in, let their lips meet for a sweet blossoming kiss and Patrick could say something like _thank you for making that happen for us_ and _I’ve never done that before with a guy_. And smile.

And David could smile back and say _well fortunately I’m a very generous person _and_ actually, oh, yes you have, with me in fact, don’t you remember Patrick. _

And they could finally both smile at the same time and the rest of their lives could start from there.

David exchanges a look with Patrick and everything suddenly feels lighter—as though there is a real chance of happiness.

Naturally, at that exact moment, the doorbell rings again. They all look questioningly at David, who shrugs. “How do I know?” he mouths.

“I’ll go,” says Stevie.

She reappears shortly and stands in the doorway with her arms folded, scowling for the second time in the evening.

“Who?” whispers David.

Stevie steps aside to reveal Sebastien Raine, looking a bit drunk, holding a bottle of zhampagne.

Patrick is immediately on his feet.

“I’m sorry, I can see I’m interrupting,” slurs Sebastien, eyeing the dinner party. “Brewer! What brings you here?”

Sebastien looks at Patrick, then David.

“Of course. I should have guessed. And you must be Alexis. Not at all what I expected from David’s sister,” Sebastien says, licking his tongue over his teeth, leering so hard that even clueless Ted starts to grow hot. 

“And Stevie. . . Oh, I’m told I should fear you because you are dangerously clever.” Stevie gives him her best death glare.

“I’m Ted,” Alexis’s sweet boyfriend offers, unable to fully read the tension in the room. “So good to meet you, man.”

“I just came to. . .” Sebastien says, zeroing in on David as he always does—especially in those moments when he senses David is pulling away. (Sebastien is, as ever, horrible.)

He ignores the rest of them completely now, most pointedly ignoring Patrick. “I’d thought you might be on your own,” he says to David.

David walks into the kitchen. Sebastien follows him.

“I’ve been going crazy. I can’t stop thinking about you. And thinking what a fucking idiot I’ve been,” Sebastien murmurs, wrapping his arms around David’s waist. “Christ—is that a blue fondue?”

“Yes.” David is looking off in the distance, his eyes a little glassy, feeling shell-shocked.

“That day you got in the car and drove away with Brewer to New York . . . it was too much for me. I just panicked seeing you all cozy with Mr. Spreadsheet and I guess I figured you were done with me, so I drew first blood.”

Oh, David remembers.

One October night when he and Patrick were hanging out “just as friends,” Sebastien showed up in New York with no warning. David didn’t know what to do when confronted by his past with Patrick there. He panicked, sent Patrick away and gave Sebastien the attention he wanted, hoping that would get him to leave faster. In return, Sebastien had left David tied up for two hours after they’d had rough sex, gotten drunk, pushed David around when he’d stood up for himself, cried all night about how he never should have left him, and then slipped out before dawn back to Chicago.

That was the last time David had seen this horrible man. This man whom he had once wanted to please more than anything. Suddenly, here he is on the same night as Patrick Brewer has just said those things he said.

_Plus the fondue is blue and the tuna is on the subway and the meadow harvest parfait is a major error of judgement. AND it is his fucking birthday. _

Everything is spinning so fast.

Things were not the same between Patrick and David after Sebastien came to New York. It seemed to be just miscommunication after misunderstanding after mishap. When they’d finally tried to clear everything up and then somehow kissed at the barbecue (_who kissed whom was still unclear_), Rachel had shown up and David had not listened to anything Patrick had to say after the word “fiancée” came out of her mouth.

Sebastien is talking to him. They are in the kitchen.

“. . . you know me, pet. I’m a terrible disaster with a posh voice and a bad character. You’re the only one who can save me, David Rose. I need you. Without you, 20 years from now I’ll be in some seedy bar with some seedy blonde.”

“What about Louis?” David hasn’t seen Sebastien since that horrible night, but he still occasionally calls and texts, sometimes taunting him with pictures of his new beau and descriptions of the things Louis let him do that David doesn’t want.

“Over. Totally fucking finito. Dumped me when he realized that I’d never gotten over you.”

David lowers his head into his hands. Not wanting to be pulled down into this familiar shit but not sure how not to be. Not sure where anyone else is now either. _Stevie_, he thought, I need you. _Alexis._ Patrick. Oh. Patrick. _Where is everyone?_

“I know you’re thinking it’s just a sex thing,” Sebastien continues. “But I promise you, every time I see that pretty little smile and those fucking brows in another magazine article about how fabulously successful you are now, all I think about is all the intelligent things you are saying and not at all how luscious you look when I have you bent over, your thighs open, and ready to take my . . . David, I’ve missed you a lot.”

“Oh, God. . .” David groans, feeling a pain in his gut. A wave of nausea.

He is leaning towards David to kiss him. David sees, over Sebastien’s shoulder, Patrick standing in the doorway.

“I’m going now. Goodbye,” Patrick says in a strangled voice.

“No— please wait . . .” David calls out, feels like he’s drowning.

“No, I don’t think I will,” Patrick replies.

“Don’t leave on my behalf,” growls Sebastien. “I think we’re both mature enough to get along even though I assume you’ve been trying to steal my pet away from me with your sad story.”

Patrick says nothing. Sebastien wraps an arm around David like a tentacle.

“At least stay for a birthday drink with me and David,” he sneers, grabbing the bottle Patrick brought and pouring himself a huge glass of wine.

“Goodbye David,” Patrick says. He is halfway down the stairway in an instant and doesn’t look back. Patrick walks straight out of the downstairs front door without closing it.

David rushes over to the window and sees Patrick, striding away down the street. He turns back to Sebastien, who is staring at him triumphantly. David furls his brow, thinking hard and asks, “Sebastien, why are you here?”

Not a moment later, there’s a knock on the door. David opens it and it’s Patrick.

“Raine,” he says to Sebastien. “Outside.”

“Sorry? Outside?” Patrick nods. “Should I bring my dueling pistols? Or my sword?”

Patrick walks out. Sebastien shrugs. Patrick is waiting outside, pacing in the street when Sebastien finally comes out.

“Oh, I should have done this when you first fucking showed up in New York to see David,” Patrick says, exhaling hard. “I always knew you were horrible. I should have never left him alone with you.”

“Done what?” Sebastien asks mockingly.

“This.”

Patrick hits Sebastien hard in the face. Sebastien falls, totally shocked. “Fuck me. That hurt!”

David, Stevie, Alexis and Ted crowd around the open window. “Oh my God,” says Ted. “Fight! Fight!” They all rush out into the street as Sebastien gets up.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he says. “This,” says Patrick, hitting him again.

“Oh my god— not again.”

David and the girls run out into the street as Sebastien gets up.

Ted races into the Greek restaurant a few doors down the street. “Quick everyone! Fight! A real fight!” The waiters rush out into the street. Sebastien struggles to his feet, hands in the air.

“Okay, okay— I give up— just give me a second here, just let me get my breath back, okay . . .?” He sits down on the little wall outside David’s apartment, then without anyone noticing he quickly grabs one of the metal garbage pail lids and hits Patrick hard.

“Cheat! Cheat!” Ted calls out, along with the Greek chorus of waiters.

Patrick is stunned, buckling at the knees and struggling to remain upright. The fight continues between the two enraged men.

“Whose side are we on?” Ted asks.

“Patrick’s obviously,” answers Alexis. “He never dumped David and treated him like shit.”

“ . . . and he said he liked him _just the way he is,_” adds Stevie.

“But Patrick also lied about having a fiancée . . . or I mean, I thought he did. Well that’s all a bit confusing now actually,” David concedes. Especially after Patrick’s admission about his preferences. Maybe David had just had things confused all along.

“This is very hard to call,” agrees Ted, likely more confused than anyone.

The fight continues, as Patrick tackles Sebastien and they fall into the open front of the Greek restaurant. Sebastien goes down hard on a table and knocks over someone’s salad. “Sorry,” he says.

They both get off the floor. Sebastien leaps back forward, and hits Patrick in the stomach. Patrick falls back and knocks over a whole table. “I really am sorry— very sorry,” he apologizes to the patrons. “I’ll pay.”

“Had enough, Brewer?”

“Not quite, if that’s all right by you,” Patrick responds. He punches Sebastien again. At which moment, two waiters emerge holding a birthday cake, and move towards a table at the other side of the restaurant.

“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you. . .” they sing. Everyone stops, even Patrick and Sebastien join in the song. “Happy Birthday dear (unintelligible mumbles). . . “ No one seems to know the name. “Happy Birthday to you!” Everyone applauds.

And then Sebastien charges Patrick again and the two of them smash right through the window and outside on to the street again. Then Patrick lands a very violent punch. There is a sickening thud as his fist hits Sebastien’s face. David reacts instinctively to the violence. As Sebastien lies there, unconscious, David runs over to him. He looks up at Patrick, flashing back. Seeing Patrick not in that moment as his protector, but only as another man who could hurt him.

And even though Sebastien is the only one present who has actually hurt him in this way, David feels unsure, seeing Sebastien now looking vulnerable and bleeding. With Patrick aggressive and angry.

“What is your problem?” David challenges Patrick.

“_My_ problem?” Patrick asks incredulously, shaking.

“Yes— you give the impression of being all noble and moral and helpful in the kitchen, but you’re just as bad and as mad as the rest of them,” David says.  
  
Patrick stares down at the scene. “Forget it. I thought it might be my job to protect you— but I was clearly mistaken.”

“Protect me?” David huffs.

“Yes— but very, very foolish mistake. Forgive me,” Patrick chokes out. David watches as he strides away. 

He hears Sebastien mumbling, “I love you, Rose.”

_“WHAT?!?”_

“I love you. Let’s go back upstairs. Come on. We belong together. Me, you. . . your sturdy, sturdy thighs.”

David takes this in. Once again, everything Sebastien has to offer is all teasing, all physical, all sex. “Right. Right. Hmm.”

“I mean,” Sebastien says. “Honestly, David, you are so easy. If I can’t make it with you, I can’t make it with anyone.”

David looks at him hard. _That’s it then. Finally, that is it._

“Well, Sebastien, no.” he says. “That’s not a good enough offer for me. I’m not willing to gamble my whole life on someone who isn’t sure. And calls me names and hurts me. And is crap in bed.”

Sebastien raises his hand suddenly as if to strike him, sees David’s face and lowers it to his side.

“At least one of us is still looking for something much more extraordinary than that. You should go.”

With that, David walks away slowly, wondering why Patrick had actually come that night. Maybe he would never find out.

***

Later that night, in his bullet journal, David writes: “Down to zero lovers. Again. Forever.” He is being dramatic no doubt—but it also feels to him like that’s the particular scene he is in today. He has dutifully followed the script--what script is that?--and this is the point he has come to in this crazy movie. Apparently, a little angsty drama is called for.

David sighs. He can't help but think that this story is not yet finished. They just seem to keep stopping at unfortunate moments.

_Would they get it right eventually?_


End file.
